


Id-Amzur Ikhbêb (Forge Work)

by lferion



Series: The Making of Dwarves [9]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Dwarf Gender Concepts, Dwarven Traditions, Dwarves In Exile, Friendship, Khazâd November, M/M, safe for Dáin fans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 07:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9537752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: Dáin has a favor to ask.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go to Zana & Morgynleri for encouragement & sanity-checking. Title means 'Act of forging work / The Work of Forging'
> 
> Written for Khazâd November, but it has taken me until now to finish, since it decided it had a whole AU attached.

In every Dwarf-settlement of any duration, intended to be long term, just as there were forges and workshops, markets and bakeries, there was, under stone, even if that stone must be built over rather than delved under, at least one bath-place, a birth-place, and a Place of Making. This held true for Hall, Home, Mine, and even remote permanent outposts, though not for temporary things such as war or trading or traveling camps, even drawn out ones. The exiles of Erebor had felt the lack over the years of wandering.

When Thráin and Thorin had led the remnant of their folk from the devastation of Azanulbizar to Ered Luin, asking grace and allowance to settle of the Firebeards and Broadbeams who had lived there since their Waking, they had been allotted an area with a bath-pool and stream, and little else. By the time Dáin visited, all lacks in necessity had been corrected, the baths properly rooved over, Making Place and birthing place delved into the mountain rock and made both beautiful and comfortable, suitable for a princess of Durin’s line to Make and bring forth heirs for Thorin, declared King seven years after the vanishing of Thráin, and showing no inclination to produce an heir of his own Making. 

The question of an heir was much on Dáin’s mind as he traveled to Thorin’s Halls in the Blue Mountains for the celebration of Fíli’s acknowledgement as Thorin’s heir, with bonus celebration of the birth of his brother Kíli. Dáin had no same-sibling to bear a son for him, Náin having only had the one child. But perhaps, just perhaps, Thorin might be willing to advise, or, more. They had fit well enough together as youths, playing at mining. And Dáin had heard no criticism of Thorin on the subject of duty to his people; personal or otherwise. Some of his own lords had even yet not ceased faulting Thráin on the subject of unwillingness to provide seed-crystals. 

Dáin was nearing his own hundredth year, and had been enduring his own lords’ and counselor’s hints, chidings and entreaties for an heir for nigh on a double-seven of years. He was not unwilling, but he did not particularly want to hew/forge a child the way Dís had, (twice now!) entirely himself, and the partner of his heart had not themself been Made to seed such gems. (They had tried, Dáin and Lódis, and it had been nothing but disaster and distress for them. Dáin himself enjoyed both mining and being mined, was happy to provide seed-crystals at invitation or request-by-Making-right (both as duty and pleasure) and Lódis was quite gleefully inventive with hands and tools in pursuit of making Dáin squirm and thrash and shout with pleasure, with no desire for such attentions in return, but none of that made for a child of his own Making. And Lódis had been steadfast in willingness — even delight at the prospect — to help raise a child of his getting, however seeded. So.)

Thráin and Thorin had done their people proud in the building of their new Halls. (Especially when considering that the place Firebeards had provided them had not seen habitation since the days of Telchar and Azaghâl, in the First Age, and had not been anything of note even then, nor had the Drowning of Beleriand been kind to it. The Broadbeams had been more generous, the promising younger son of one of their most noted architects taking the project as a challenge worthy of his Masterwork, as indeed it proved. Master Bombur and his close kin had chosen to live among the exiled Longbeards after completing the designs and initial engineering work had commenced, welcomed by and welcoming to the refugees.) The new construction bore scant resemblance to that of the Iron Hills or what Dáin recalled of Erebor, but made clever and handsome use of local material and resource. By necessity, many of the houses were terraced steeply into the outer faces of the mountain, forges and workshops at their feet. The markets were open to the sky, as were the training arenas. Colonnades and stacked balconies gave shelter from the elements while still allowing air to circulate through the houses and enclosed spaces. 

The houses and workshops were sturdy and handsome, with stone for walls and rooves, wood from the trees that grew tall and broad in the mountain meadows for interiors and detailing. But the true effort was most apparent in the heart-places of bath, making and birth. Dáin had spent so much of the journey thinking about heirs that just seeing the chambers on the official welcome tour made heat pool low in his belly, the chambers of his treasure-chest and forge ache to be opened, filled to the brim, Making-fires stoked. If he wasn't careful, he might not even need help unlocking his gem-casket with its store of Dwarf-iron and gem-seeds, few and old as they were. He would be very pleased to make use of the baths, he assured the anxious escort. They were very fine, very fine indeed. He said nothing about hoping to put Making chamber to good use in congenial company. He would not be here long enough for the Birthing chamber to be of use to him, and Lódis would never forgive him if he were.

It was several days of ceremony and formalities, complete with plenty of good food and drink, everyone on public, polite behavior so as to make a good show for the Broadbeams and Firebeards, and incidentally for the Men and Elves in their nearby settlements, before Dáin had opportunity to speak to Thorin about any kind of private matter. 

The evening was shading into night, twilight fading and the stars beginning to appear. Dinner had been a clan affair, held in the central square of the settlement, the high table set on the covered terrace before the doors of the hall that served for council and guild meetings, as well as concerts and public receptions. Summer warmth lingered, and fireflies twinkled in the trees and bushes that edged the open space. Dáin and Thorin were savoring the last of the excellent mead while the cleanup crew cleared the boards. A stack of wood was growing in the fire-circle in the center of the square, an impromptu bonfire for dancing and merrymaking, entirely unofficial and thus nothing requiring either of them. 

Dáin eased his leg straight and leaned back in the chair (one definite advantage to the high table: chairs with backs and arms and cushions, not backless benches shared with six others,) looking at Thorin’s sharp profile against lamp-and-firelight. In the fire-gilded planes and angles there was not much of the young Dwarf Dáin had wrestled with as a child, played at mining with as a youth exploring newly wakened desires. More of the warrior, less of the musician, more of leader-by-necessity, shouldering the burden of a people, a kingdom in doubled — tripled — grief, (not unprepared, no, but no amount of lessons, of lectures, of theory could quite prepare one for that weight), less of the lad who could be persuaded into larks. But it wasn't a lark Dáin wanted to persuade him into, and no doubt his own face was similarly changed. "I was thinking, Thorin," he began, wanting, needing to start somewhere, and here and now was as good as any. 

Thorin's brows rose in question, encouraging him to go on. He refrained from making a remark pointed or otherwise on the idea of Dáin thinking — another difference from the Thorin of old. 

"I need an heir. Haven't got a sister to give me sister-sons, what with Náin getting me like Dís did yours, and, well…." Dáin stopped, looking out at the dancers around the new-lit fire, couples and singles and groups of three and four sorting themselves out into sets. He'd never said this before, not even to Lódis while they were trying, but he realized it was true, he did want what he was working around to asking for (and Lódis very likely knew him better than he did himself, had known, without him saying, even then). "I'd like to bear the pebble myself. Bein' pestered to, in fact, though that doesn't weigh with me. Not from them." His eyes flicked to the table where the local and visiting counselors had sat, a few remaining to argue obscure points with each other. 

Thorin followed his glance, and his expression, which had been attentive and open, gained a wry twist. "Aye. Not _theirs_ to decide," he said softly.

And that, right there, was part of why it was Thorin Dáin was talking to, Thorin he was going to ask. Thorin understood. "And I'd like your help with it. A measure of your gold to alloy with my own, and some hammer-marks to aide the forging." His metaphors were getting mixed. He'd never been on this side of the question before. Which reminded him. "I'm asking you as a friend, not claiming Making-right, and if you'd rather not, I'll say no more about it, and no hard feelings." 

Dáin could not quite make out Thorin's expression, but he didn't seem to be scowling, and his hand did not clench, though he did put down his mead cup.

"Not often I'm given the choice," Thorin said, his faint smile again wry, "though few enough claim of me either. That will likely change now." Somehow he managed to both glare in the direction of the counselors and look warmly at Dáin. "I am honored by your asking, and happy to accept." The words were formal, but the tone was quite sincere, and Dáin found himself the recipient of Thorin's true smile, a rare sight indeed, even when they were pebbles together. An equally rare glint crinkled the corners of his eyes, but Dáin remembered what impish looked like on Thorin, and was not surprised when he continued with “Tonight?”

Why not? And if they managed the thing properly, they could both put off if not avoid entirely the round of tiresome courtesies that was the business intended for the morrow. And besides, 'strike while the iron is hot' was a phrase with more than one meaning. Dain grinned, "I'd like that. Yes. Lets." 

They managed to leave the square without catching the eye of any of the counselors. Dís had retired long since, but Dwalin, playing a friendly (that is for counters and imaginary/future rounds at the pub, not coin) game of dice with Bofur, Master Bombur’s brother, nodded as they slipped past. Someone should know they were going, even if where and what were no-one’s business but their own. A word or two of Iglishmek and a nod from Dwalin and that was settled. 

They bathed first, the baths empty of others this time on a festival night, taking their time about it, scrubbing each other's backs, appreciating form and muscle and trading stories of scars and ink. Beyond anything else, it was good to relearn each other as adults, strengthen bonds that had been tried by war and distance and grief, maintained by the vagaries of letters mostly official and only occasionally personal. Thorin was still ticklish at the ribs, Dáin still stretched and purred like a cat when his neck was rubbed just so. 

By the time they rose from the hot pool to take a quick dip in the cold and towel each other dry, they had recaptured some of the mischievous enjoyment in each other that had enlivened the royal quarters of Erebor in their youth. Dáin was glad to see Thorin relaxing, setting aside the stern mien of king-in-exile and allowing the friend and lover to emerge, strengths and vulnerabilities both on display. There was something almost sacred — no, not almost, actually sacred — in what they were doing, it felt right and good, both needful and true. And fun. It was supposed to be fun, joyful, enjoyable for all involved, whether it be one alone, two or three or a whole company of people, to engage in The Making of children. One of the most sacred things a Dwarf could do. Dáin felt the resonance of that potential vibrating in the stone around him, in his own bones and hollows and secret places. At the same time he felt like a pebble getting away with some cheerful, unsanctioned romp. It was a heady mix, and a glance over at Thorin seemed to show he was feeling a similar jumble of feelings.

It was a relief to tumble into the small Making chamber they had chosen off the main Place, shut the door firmly behind them, and collapse onto each other, in a state somewhere between mirth and solemnity, partaking of both. It was going to be an excellent night.

* * *

When Dain rode away after all the festivities formal and informal were done, it was with a deep sense of satisfaction and pleasure. He was sorry to be leaving Thorin and Dis and the babes behind, for it would be long years before he would see them again, But he could feel the spark in his own forge, the materiel of life busy assembling itself into a person, ready to embark on Making itself ready to be born in good time. He would have a child, an heir. A Thorin, they would be, he thought, third of that name. It felt right.


End file.
